It was the dark blue dressing gown that finally shattered her controlled composure. Irene had been perfectly fine (or at least what she considered fine) until then. She happened upon the soft fabric by complete accident; she had forgotten that it was even in her closet at all. Her jaw clenched as she touched the gown again with trembling hands. The feel of the soft material was cold and, in a way, lifeless.
It seemed as though she had forgotten more than just the dressing gown.
It was not stolen. Theft would imply that Sherlock was not present at the time, and The Woman was not a thief. And it was certainly not a gift; gifts were much too sentimental for either of them. Truth be told, she did not quite remember how she had acquired the garment. Yet here it was, in her flat, tucked away in the depths of her closet.
Before she even realized what she was doing, she had placed her arms through the large sleeves, allowing the fabric to gently drape over her small frame. The cold of the robe caused a shiver to ripple through her. Memories of the past flooded her mind; memories of golden firelight and warm air. One memory in particular stood out; Karachi.
It was then that Irene remembered where the dressing gown had come from. The night she shared with the consulting detective had been ingrained in her memory for so long. It scared her to think she could have forgotten a detail so important. She had been wearing it the morning Sherlock left. He made no protest upon seeing her in the garment, and said nothing as he left. That had been almost two years ago.
Irene had known that there was a possibility of never seeing Sherlock again after he saved her life, but nothing would prepare her for the news she received not six months past.
Suicide of Fake Genius.
There was no grieving that night, nor any after. She wouldn't allow herself. Grief was not something she ever wanted to associate herself with.
She unconsciously wrapped the gown around her as she remembered the night she heard, or rather, read, those four words. The air seemed terribly frigid as she entered the sitting room. A sigh shuddered through her as she nearly collapsed on the sofa. She silently scolded herself, bringing her knees to her chest, for being so sickeningly sentimental. The incessant tight feeling in her chest, the lump in her throat, and the tears threatening to show were only increasing her frustration.
The sharp sound of knocking startled her in her weakened state. She groaned in annoyance, choosing to ignore the visitor. She hoped that the person would assume that no one was home and leave her alone.
Alone.
The strength she had all of those months ago vanished in an instant. Her face crumpled as she pulled her legs closer, a few shaky sobs shuddering through her body. The passage of time in those few moments had no meaning to her. She was alone. So utterly alone. How was she to know something as simple as a dressing gown would be the very thing to push her over the edge?
She smirked sadly in spite of herself, contemplating her current state. If she was to be glad for one thing, it was that the damned man would never see her in this weak, emotional point in her life. He would certainly give her hell for it. Her warm tears dampened the sleeve of the blue robe she wore; her eyes were puffy and red. This was a side to Irene Adler that she never wanted revealed; grieving over the suicide of a "fake genius." There was another set of sharp knocks on the door. They were louder and more urgent, and though temporarily, they had caught her attention. She clenched her jaw in agitation; her nosy neighbors couldn't leave well enough alone. Once again, she chose to ignore it.
The knocking was followed by a few moments of silence. The woman sighed heavily, running a hand through her thick hair. She closed her eyes and shook her head, silently cursing herself again for allowing herself such a display of emotion; over Sherlock Holmes, no less.
The buzzing of her mobile on the wooden coffee table startled her almost as much as the knocking had. She huffed, reaching her hand out, slowly grabbing the phone. To her surprise, it was a text. Usually, she received emails, and the occasional phone call from interested parties, but rarely was she ever the recipient of a text message. The sender's number wasn't recognizable. She furrowed her brow, unlocking her phone.
Her heart nearly stopped upon reading the text.
Oh for God's sake, Irene. I'm not dead. Open the door.
Irene did not need any signature to know who that particular text was from.
She threw her phone down and ran to the door, not caring enough about sentiment at this point. She stopped just as she reached the wooden frame, her hand hovering just above the handle. The possibility that he was on the opposite side gave her chills. Time itself seemed to slow down as she cautiously opened the door. The breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding in was released at the sight before her.
He was more thin than she remembered; then again, he had been supposedly dead for almost six months now, and was likely to be on the run during most of that time. It was evident that he had neither bathed, nor ate in some time. His curly black hair was tangled and matted, and damp with perspiration; stubble covering his jaw. Bruises along his knuckles and arms gave hints as to what he had been up to in the recent months.
Irene gave him the once-over, her face remaining as impassive as she could manage. It was probably rather obvious to Sherlock what she had been doing previously, as she hadn't really been given time to compose herself. Silence stretched between them, neither one saying a word. She did not let him in; not yet. She found that she was unable to move while under his intense gaze. Finally, she broke the silence, folding her arms across her chest. "You look terrible."
The corner of Sherlock's lip curled up in the slightest of smiles at her remark, then faded almost as soon as it appeared, looking down as he did so. A look of recognition came over his face as he saw the fabric draped over her. His blue dressing gown.
Irene smirked, leaning against the door. She stared expectantly at him, waiting for him to answer the unasked question of 'Why are you here?'; though in truth, she didn't really care what the answer would be. He was supposed to be dead. So naturally, his presence was all that mattered in that moment.
He returned his gaze to hers, his eyes softening as his expression changed to one she couldn't quite place. "Dinner?"
Thanks for reading! :)